


Blackout

by BarnesRogersVsTheWorld



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-28
Updated: 2018-08-28
Packaged: 2019-07-03 14:10:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,249
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15820476
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BarnesRogersVsTheWorld/pseuds/BarnesRogersVsTheWorld
Summary: Manhattan goes dark. Bucky sees it as an opportunity to join you for a walk.





	Blackout

  
  


Manhattan is dark. 

 

Plunged into blackness by a cascade of system failures triggered by power overloads, settling the busy, vibrant city into a reverent, anticipatory quiet.

 

Magic. 

 

It feels like magical. The way power outages do when you’re a kid. Flashlights under blanket forts. Board games by candlelight. 

 

Bucky’s not so sure he agrees. Not so certain he can shake reminders of war. Your heart plummets a bit as he voices as much. 

 

Two different worlds.

 

But he stands beside you on the tower steps anyway, surveying the people below. Shadows and silhouettes, murmurs and giggles in the moonlight. It’s actually dark enough to see the stars, lack of light pollution pulling them into relief against the velvety blue-black sky.

 

You nudge your elbow against his arm, gesture up toward one bright, steady point of light.

 

“Venus,” you say, “plus a full moon, plus a blackout?” You wiggle your eyebrows, even if he cannot see, “Gonna be a lot of love in the city tonight.”

 

Bucky laughs a quiet snort of surprise at your words. Follows you down the steps and onto the avenue. A group of kids hurry past, a glowing something held in the palms of the one up front. You set off in silence, passing small congregations of people seemingly as awed by the darkness as yourself. Somewhere in the distance, classical piano filters from a battery operated radio.

 

“Stark’s reactor could power the entire tower,” Bucky says, trailing you on the walkway. And you can’t see him, but you know his hands are shoved deep in his pockets as he walks, “why do you think he’s leaving it?”

 

You glance over your shoulder, past Bucky’s silhouette and to the tower. Security lights gleam dimly behind tinted windows, but for the most part it remains dark. 

 

“He kept all the vitals running,” you answer, “the labs. But you know Tony. Child at heart Stark? This is probably Disney World to him right now.”

 

Bucky hums a response, but says nothing else. It hadn’t come as much of a surprise to you when he volunteered to accompany you on what you jokingly referred to as blackout patrol. 

 

What initially started out between you as a friendship buffered by Steve Rogers the human security blanket had developed over time into a companionship that didn’t need the Captain’s supervision.

 

Bucky’s progression from quiet, brooding soldier to a laughing, sass mouthed tech wiz had swelled your affection for him ten-fold. Had you seeking out his company now before all others. Had you desperately relieved that he was the one wanting to walk beside you in the dark. 

 

The night air is balmy, intersected by a cool breeze that hints toward the vibrant leaves of approaching fall. Ridiculously pleasant for a late New York summer. Bucky follows you as you dip from the busier avenue onto a less crowded street. It’s even darker, fewer car headlights lighting up the night. His footfalls are heavy, almost menacing in thick soled boots. Unlike the stealth quiet of a trained assassin. You find yourself grinning, slowing your own pace to fall in line beside him. 

 

“Is that a defensive technique?” You tease, “making yourself sound as big and scary as possible?”

 

“Why?” he laughs, “You scared?”

 

Eyes catch yours from the fleeting light of a passing cellphone. Disarmingly blue.

 

Your first exhale contains no words. It takes a second to say, “Never of you.”

 

The silence between you isn’t so settled after.

 

Tension is broken at the corner of the intersection, where the homemade popsicle shop that resides there gives away what remains of their daily small batches, passing them along to the crowd that has gathered beneath the light of their battery operated lamps.

 

Bucky declines one, seems regretful of it as you make him take a bite of yours once you’ve crossed to another street. Vanilla cookie. You promise to take him back and buy him one another day.

 

The new street is full of neighborhood children, and you soon stumble across a group that has two ropes stretched over the sidewalk, urging passerbys to double dutch their way across. 

They cheer when you take them up on the offer, and you do a few awkward hops over the ropes that flash red and green with every thwack against the pavement.

 

Bucky’s chortling when you meet him on the other side, clearly amused by your attempt, and you swat at his arm only to find the ice cream you’d entrusted him while you were busy is now gone.

 

“It was melting,” is his only defense, bitten between laughter as he deftly dodges your hands, retreating down the street in the dark. 

 

You grab him by the elbow of his denim jacket around the next corner, hold him in a vice grip as you catch your breath, “You owe me ice cream!”

 

“It was free!”

 

A prod to his side and then, “Okay. Okay. I owe you. I’m sorry.” 

 

Gloved fingers close around your own, hold back your assault as heavy breaths still tinged in laughter settle between you, louder on the new street, which is much more deserted than the last. Your thumb sweeps over the material that covers his own, and suddenly his breath is no longer audible.

 

“Take your jacket off,” you whisper, fingers gripped in the denim tugging it gently.

 

Bucky drops the hand he’s holding, a whoosh of air leaves his lips, “What?” and then, when you don’t immediately answer, “You aren’t cold?”

 

You shake your head, forgetting he likely cannot make it out before adding, “No.

 

It speaks to his trust in you when he listens anyway, shrugging out of the heavy denim and waiting as you fold it over your arm. Your hand finds his again, carefully tugs off the glove that covers the smooth, cool metal beneath. 

 

“See?”

 

A pause. A quiet laugh, “I don’t see anything.”

 

“Exactly. Neither does anyone else. You don’t have to cover up. You’re not the Winter Soldier right now. You’re James Barnes, a man taking a walk through the city.”

 

“Bucky,” he whispers quietly. Automatically. But you can feel his smile through the name.   
  


“Bucky,” you agree, your own breath stilting as that metal palm finds the side of your face. As cool fingers slide through the hair just above your ear.

 

“I see what you mean now,” he says, “About the magic.”

 

Careful lips find yours in the dark. 

 

Slow. Easy. Familiar in a way that feels as if they’ve touched for years, exciting in a way that says they never have.

 

His warmer hand cups the other side of your face, holds you there in reverence as vanilla sweetened tongue slips between your lips. Bodies draw closer, melt into the other as mouths press harder, plead for _more_. 

 

His lip drawn between yours elicits a whimper from his throat. Sends one hand to the back of your head and the other to the small of your back. Presses you closer. Again begs for _more_. 

 

Cool metal fingers skim beneath your shirt, graze across your back in slow circles that pull chills from the heated skin, draw a gasp from your lips as you pull away from him, utterly breathless. 

 

Chests rise and fall together. Foreheads touch. Warm breath mingles in the dark. Silence passes as you both process what’s transpired. Neither of you move. Finally, Bucky’s nose brushes against your own.

 

“I blame Venus,” he whispers finally. 

 

You laugh.

 

He swears it’s brighter than all the stars.

  
  
  



End file.
